


The 10,000 Hour Rule

by RecursiveMontage



Category: Parahumans Series - Wildbow
Genre: Existential Horror, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-16
Updated: 2020-11-16
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:27:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27591352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RecursiveMontage/pseuds/RecursiveMontage
Summary: In which being Über is suffering.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 44





	The 10,000 Hour Rule

The first time Über activated his power, he’d felt relief more strongly than any emotion he’d experienced before in his short life. To be given any sort of freedom had been a blessing, even with the new limits he had to deal with.

His experience had been substantially more negative since then, though the specific emotions had varied. Rage. Despair. Even apathy, the special sort of numbness that could be just as intense in its own way.

Today was a self-loathing day. He’d pledged, with all his heart, that he wouldn’t do this anymore. That he’d only use his power when he really, truly, needed it. He remembered deciding that, committing to it, writing it on every portion of his mind and soul.

But here he was again. In the simulation.

The void expanded around him. Sharp blue lines spread from his feet in a gridded pattern, marking out a framework approximation of a ground and eventually forming a horizon. The diffuse light the lines gave off scattered into an empty sky, utterly dark.

A part of him appreciated its aesthetic, the way it happened to tie into his theme. A much larger part of him hated it, hated his theme for having any relationship to it, and would gladly take the time to strangle each and every one of those gridlines if it were possible.

He looked directly upwards just in time to see a number popped into place far above him, a final sign of the fate he’d consigned himself to yet again.

_10000_

The first set of practice items instantiated. A tray of fist-sized balls was conveniently placed at waist height. There weren’t many of them, but the tray would refill as he used them. A circular target appeared a short distance away, its concentric rings ready to provide feedback about his accuracy.

More would come later – different objects, different targets – but for now they were the only things here that felt as real as himself.

There was nothing else to do. He got started.

_9996_

Starting simple, that was the trick. An overarm throw wasn’t the fanciest technique, but nor was it the worst. There was room for a lot of slight variation, but that was for later, when he needed the change.

For now, the bare fundamentals were enough.

_9984_

It was already starting to wear on him. Shit.

_9730_

He took breaks, of course. He didn’t need to eat, drink, or sleep – in fact, he couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard he tried. But breaks helped.

There was no way to know how much time passed during them; regardless of whether he took a few minutes or hours, the timer only ticked down when he was practicing.

_9216_

He knew it wasn’t his first time doing this. He could remember going through a similar training regime in the past. Several times, in fact. And it wouldn’t be the last time either, probably. Throwing things tended to come up a lot.

But the memories were hazy, distant. Like he’d heard someone talk about an experience rather than having lived it himself. While he felt like this exact motion should already be ingrained in muscle memory, his body adamantly refused to stick with it until he spent time learning it all over again. Maybe the prior experiences helped him improve slightly faster, but he doubted it.

_8607_

He paused again, spending what he guessed was a day fending off a breakdown before he got back to work. Best to take the time off when he needed it. If he let himself keep going while he was distracted by his thoughts, lost in the angst, a good chunk of the time wouldn’t even count. Just going through the motions wasn’t enough.

_6329_

The gridlines had shifted again a couple hours ago, forcing him to adapt to newly uneven footing. Multiple targets popped up for him to rotate between as the tray provided him with a variety of different projectiles.

It was refreshing.

_6325_

The new terrain also meant he couldn’t comfortably sit down anymore.

_4999_

He’d passed the halfway point. So, on an emotional level, he was about a tenth of the way done.

_4407_

At least it wasn’t another video game. Nothing sucked the joy out of those more than having to replay them over and over and over, alone. High scores and best times became hard to care about when he was only competing against himself. And often he didn’t even get to play the whole game. He’d just sit there, for weeks on end, snapping off different headshots or doing variations on the same puzzle again and again.

_2973_

He was getting the itch again. The need to do something else. Anything else. It was dangerous.

He’d let himself go out once when he was… doing something boxing-related. He didn’t remember what. But he remembered putting down the gloves and wandering out to the horizon. Losing sight of the speedbag. It’d been freeing, at first.

And then he’d walked.

And walked.

And walked.

If he’d just stayed with the training equipment, he would only have had to work for another few thousand hours.

He didn’t know how long he’d been out there, with nothing but the flat neon lines and the number over his head. But it was longer. Much, much longer, before he’d somehow stumbled back upon the speedbag.

The vague recollections of what he’d gone through were the only thing stopping him from wandering out again, but they were more than enough.

_2038_

He was going to kill Leet if he ever heard him complaining again. Screw him. Screw him so much. He wished Leet were here, so he could kill him. Or to have someone to talk to. Maybe both.

_1244_

It wouldn’t be long now, until he was down to three digits. Just ten days to go until he hit that milestone.

Ten days of solid practice, admittedly. Twenty-four-hour days. With no rest. The equivalent of six weeks of standard full-time employment.

But thinking of it as ten days made it easier.

_746_

He hadn’t even noticed crossing the seven-fifty mark. He wasn’t sure if he’d managed to get into another flow state, or if he’d just disassociated for a few hours. The two had started to mingle with each other every now and then, forming a peculiar cocktail of experience where time passed without his knowledge. But he was still improving enough for it to count. That was the important thing.

_270_

He had to remember this time. Remember what this was like. Not use it frivolously. Maybe if he focused hard enough, the idea would trickle through on a subconscious level.

_38_

Oh god. He was so close. Come on. Tick down. Tick down already. Tick the hell down.

_1_

The last hour was a long one.

For all that he wanted to push through, for it to be over, it was hard to keep his attention on the task when it was so close to done. He didn’t want anything more than for it to be over.

Maybe this time would be different. Maybe he wouldn’t forget.

He couldn’t go through this again.

_0_

Über felt his mind stutter a moment, the familiar sensation of knowledge shoving its way into his brain as his body moved to smoothly toss the piece of trash into the bin Leet was holding.

“Dude! That was sick,” Leet said.

“Ah, it was nothing. Only what, thirty yards? But feel free to keep the praise coming.”

He could feel the knowledge fade as he let go of the technique. The clean-up of Leet’s latest test had been getting dull, but it was nothing a little friendly competition couldn’t fix.

“Bet you can’t do it from fifty.”

“Pfft, too easy.”

He rebooted the technique, jogging backwards as the overarm throw snapped back into place like it was brand-new. Another smooth shot, nothing but net.

“Pay up, sucker!” he crowed.

“Yeah, guess I really should’ve seen that coming. I’ll clean your bit?”

“Nah, it’s cool. You should go catalogue the parts you recovered; I can work my magic here. Grab me a broom on your way, and we’ll call it square.”

“You sure?” Leet asked. “Thanks man, you’re the best.”

“Dude, it’s no trouble. After all, I think I’m going to be a little bit better at sweeping than you would be. This won’t take me five minutes.”


End file.
